


I Know

by ValeCimmerian



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 12:30:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19745818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValeCimmerian/pseuds/ValeCimmerian
Summary: What if Aziraphale had missed the portal? What if he then went to try and find Crowley, only to find an all too familiar empty flask and puddle of demon-goo? Based on a tumblr post, originally posted to tumblr





	I Know

He always knew the end would come, like a bird knows it has to nest when the leaves begin to bud. There was a plan of course, the Great Ineffable Plan, and as much as Aziraphale meddled (or didn't) with the little goodness that remained on Earth, what had been set in motion would be whether he liked it or not. So he knew that there would come a day when he'd have to leave this world behind, to say goodbye to his books and the arrangement with Crowley for good. Aziraphale had kept his unshakeable faith throughout the years. He was certain that whatever happened and whatever he felt, if God intended it then it must be good.

Still, there's a difference between knowing and Knowing. And recently, Aziraphale had started to think that maybe if the apocalypse was just delayed it wouldnt be such a bad thing after all, so as he finished what was quite possibly one of the most important books created in human history and brushed the dust off his shoulders, he picked up the phone and rang his demonic counterpart.  
'Crowley, I know where the antichrist is!'  
The response he got wasn't quite as enthused as the angel had hoped. Clearly, his tone hadn't conveyed quite the urgency he required. So, Aziraphale raced out the door with only the thought that maybe he and Crowley had a chance at preserving what they had.

And in entering the door to Crowley's apartment, Aziraphale Knew the End would come. Had come.

It was dark inside, except for the light intruding through the door that had been thrown and left that way. Hatred radiated off the place. Below had decided to interfere then, and although Aziraphale wanted to hope that somehow Crowley had miracled (cursed?) his way out of this situation, if it was part of the Plan there was no escaping it. It was this inescapable fear that began to course through Aziraphale as he went across the threshold slowly but with increasing speed. Up the stairs, around the sharp corners and harsh gray the apartment was filled with, he saw a faint light and smelt something akin to burnt rubber. His heart beat faster (quite unnecessarily, he sternly reminded himself) and he couldn't help but call out the demon's name as he broke into an undignified, stumbling run toward's Crowley's office. Aziraphale stopped dead as his world drained away, colour fading as he stepped into the light of the room and saw a gently steaming pile of what had been a demon once. On the desk was a tartan flask. His flask. Which had once been filled with holy water blessed by his own hand, decades ago when he refused Crowley's offer in a move he continued to regret more sharply with each breath he took in this room. The flask that was now empty. And although the walls were lined with his demon's majestic leafy green plants that trembled almost as intensely as Aziraphale did in that moment, the trace that remained in that room was not the warmth he has become accustomed to there but the fierce hatred of Below. He whispered Crowley's name, just once, so sadly and quietly you'd need divine (or occult) hearing to make it out.

Dimly, Aziraphale recognised that his legs had begun to move under him, a numb arm reached out and fingers closed around a familiar metal flask. It was flung, from him through the window in a loud and piercing crash that barely touched him.  
'Oh, fuck.' He cursed quietly at first, but then again louder until he was not so much shouting but wailing, and somehow he had ended up on the floor that was cold and hard, curled into himself with balled fists in his soft belly. Dust and grime covered his trousers, dirtying his usually pristine appearance, and tears began to shudder haltingly down his face as he shook in his grief. There would be no more pleasant meals to be shared in dimly lit restaurants with tables smaller than the dishes, no more evenings of agreeable argument chased with good wine. No more pretending not to give each other gifts, small miracles that spoke of magnitudes. No more looks that served as words. No more.

He did not know how long he lay there on the floor, curled around his fists and crying out to one who answer, only that the light had shifted from the harsh sunlight to the colder neon lights of the night. Every so often he would shift, turn his head away from the light only to be caught by the reflection off the demonic puddle beside him and become wracked with grief-ridden dry sobs once more. Eventually, somewhere in his numb brain a tired voice told Aziraphale that lying here on the floor wouldnt bring Crowley back. Nothing would, except maybe drinking enough to forget the effect the bastard had on his damn heart and then enough to hallucinate him here again. Here, barely an inch away, as he had been for as long as the earth had existed, and Aziraphale ached to see that insufferable smirk again. Somehow, his limbs unfolded and Aziraphale rose from the floor. Creased, covered in angelic tears, and dirtier by the apartment floor, he left the room with a sigh and Crowley's name upon his lips. The demon didn't answer, and an uncorked bottle of wine appeared in Aziraphale's hand. He drank.

Crowley couldn't answer because he was burning. Not burning thousands of feet down below in one of the 9 circles of Hell, or even burning in the literal fire and wrath of God. No, he was burning inside.

An insistent fireman placed a hand on Crowley's shoulder and gently shook it.  
'Hey, buddy? I'm gonna have to ask you to move, okay. Is this your shop?'  
'Do I look like the kind of person that would own a bookshop?' Crowley tried to snarl, but a sob escaped his lips at the word bookshop. He staggered forwards on legs more unsteady than usual. His eyes were frantically searching through the windows of the shop for any sign of movement, any sign of his angel, searching for a sign of a miracle. Nothing. Just fire and waves of heat rolling off the bookshop, paint curling and blackening so that not even Aziraphale's name on earth could be seen. Crowley called out his name, his true name, loudly and clearly as he could manage with his trembling form being unstable as it was. He cried out for his angel, desperately searching for the hope that somewhere he would be alive, or at the very least just temporarily discorporated. Rough hands of strained firemen pushed him back, but Crowley forced his way past them to get through the collapsing doorway of the shop, through the shelves of inferno, past the ghosts of cups of cocoa, to stand in the centre of the burning destruction and weep for Aziraphale.

Once the initial anger had burnt out, Crowley stopped. He hadn't bothered to change his glasses, cracked and dangling off the angles of his face as they were, and his yellow pupils gazed blankly at the world around them heedless of the humans that stared and gasped as he walked, or rather shuffled, past. Somehow, and he didn’t know if it was seeing Aziraphale burn in his mind over and over, or the Scotch lighting a fire in his throat, he had ended up in St James’ Park. The sky was blue. Crowley mumbled a half-hearted curse at it, then heaved a dry sob. His glasses clattered to the floor. He left them there. One shaking foot in front of the other, then again, then again. Tighten the grip of his numb fingers around the half-empty bottle of Scotch. (£5 at the corner shop, although the man behind the counter had given it to him for free with a little persuasion) His hair was still coated in the ashes of his angel’s pride and joy, the fringe hanging limply over his forehead, and his jacket was now more grey than black. Singed pages of book were clutched in one hand, a hand that was inflamed and red with a burn Crowley could have easily willed away, and he’d filled his pockets with still glowing book bindings. He remembered Aziraphale acquiring almost every one of those books, remembered his face as he brought them to the back of the shop to inspect and file appropriately. He remembered Aziraphale in flashes, his joy at the mundane humanity that surrounded them. Crowley would have to remember. His chest tightened. He had to remember, he was the only one left to remember. And somewhere, beyond the designated paths, Crowley stopped. 

His breaths came in hitched gasps, forgetting of course that it was optional, and his legs gave way beneath him. Crowley sank to the floor, vaguely aware that somewhere his knees hit the grass and damp began to seep through to create a messy damp charcoal on the surface of his clothes. Pages spilled around him. Another cry escaped his lips, and he began to cry out for his angel, not caring who heard him. Not for the first time, he wished for Aziraphale’s arms to be around him. Now he knew they never would be. 

‘I’m sorry angel, I’m sorry. If I had only..’ Crowley’s voice trailed off into a choked sob. Another swig of drink. His head was spinning. The bottle was almost empty. He devolved into a series of whispered apologies, curling his long limbs around the cold comfort of the Scotch bottle. He stayed that way, coiled in a grieving stupor, until the Scotch ran out. Crowley tossed the bottle to one side, absently sending it to a recycling bin, and clawed his wait upright using a park bench. He stood, swaying, holding on to the wooden back of the bench, seeing the visions of himself and Aziraphale here over the years. Himself, draped over the bench, gazing at Aziraphale. Aziraphale. It hit him again and Crowley doubled over with the weight of his loss once more, trying to just breath, and maybe he should sober up, then-

Something soft, white, and tear-streaked hurtled itself at him. Crowley was swept off his feet and hit the grass (again) with force that should have knocked the breath out of him had he not already been breathless. The blur was grimy, and shaking with tears, but real and present in a way nothing else was. 

‘Crowley’ Aziraphale breathed, and an eternity of love was held in that singular word as the two remained just as they had fallen, for a moment. It takes a second, but they help each other up and stand shakily, looking at one another like men starved of oxygen. 

‘Aziraphale, I-’ Crowley begins, finally meeting Aziraphale’s eyes with his own, but a hysterical laugh somewhere between sadness and joy bubbles out of his chest. ‘My G- Somebody, I thought you were dead. Like dead-dead. Forever. I-’ he ran out of words and brought a hesitant hand to his angel’s face. Aziraphale simply gazed at him, but a twitch of his lips encouraged the demon to cup his face gently. Crowley used the tears still trickling down Aziraphale’s face to wipe the grime that had accumulated there, and left his hand there to hold the angel softly, leaning into the contact without thinking. Aziraphale brought a hand up to mirror Crowley’s , taking a piece of paper out of his dishevelled hair.

‘Crowley, my dear, I saw the holy water on the floor and felt demonic presences, and I thought you’d gone in a rather permanent way’ Aziraphale spoke quietly, keeping his gaze locked on Crowley though his voice was shaking and choked. His thumb started to stroke small comforting circles on the demon’s cheek as Crowley’s face crumpled, leaning in to the soft touch of his angel even as his breathing quickened again. He used his spare hand to offer Aziraphale the charred, crumpled remains of his bookshop. 

‘Angel, your shop.. nobody could save it. I’m sorry.’ Both of them broke a little more, although Aziraphale more at the look of horror and grief so alien on Crowley’s features. Crowley twitched a little. Then, slowly, like a sigh of relief, he pulled Aziraphale in to his chest, pressing the two together in an awkward embrace that was all elbows and squished faces, while still having the grace of an enamoured greeting.

'I thought I'd lost you' Aziraphale mumbled somewhere into Crowley's chest.  
'I know' he sighed, deeply. Armageddon was still coming, and they both knew what that meant now. 'I don't want to lose you for good'  
'I know' Aziraphale's arm disentangled itself from Crowley's blazer, and came up to hold the two even tighter together.  
'We're on our side now' Crowley whispered in a low voice that managed, despite everything, to still give him shivers all the way down his spine. Aziraphale held his demon, Crowley held his angel, and it was a quiet before the impending chaos.  
'I won't let you go again.'


End file.
